(Actually being posted on April 18, 2007 -1:18am EDT)

I just noticed that I missed the two year anniversary of me starting this blog.

April 9th, 2005…

The blog has changed a lot, but not as much as I have.

Reading the old shit is almost laughable now…Wow, oh wow are things different now.

I would have more to say, except it’s late and I just wanted to drop this out here to mark the occasion. Hope all is well for all 3 people who might read this…

I’m going to go stand by the window, drink a beer, smoke a cigarette, and think about it. It’s hitting me rather profoundly for some reason…

Panic on the streets of London
Panic on the streets of Birmingham
I wonder to myself
Could life ever be sane again?

The Leeds side-streets that you slip down
I wonder to myself

Hopes may rise on the Grasmere
But Honey Pie, you’re not safe here
So you run down
To the safety of the town

But there’s panic on the streets of Carlisle
Dublin, Dundee, Humberside
I wonder to myself

Burn down the disco
Hang the blessed DJ
Because the music that they constantly play
It says nothing to me about my life

Hang the blessed DJ
Because the music they constantly play

On the Leeds side-streets that you slip down
The provincial towns you jog ’round

Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ, Hang the DJ

Hang the DJ

What she said:
“How come someone hasn’t noticed
That I’m dead
And decided to bury me?
God knows, I’m ready!”
La, la, la…

What she said was sad
But then, all the rejection she’s had
To pretend to be happy
Could only be idiocy
La, la, la…

What she said was not for the job or
Lover that she never had
Oh…
No no no…

What she read
All heady books
She’d sit and prophesise

It took a tattooed boy from Birkenhead
To really really open her eyes

What she read
All heady books
She’d sit and prophesise
It took a tattooed boy from Birkenhead
To really really open her eyes

What she said:
“I smoke ‘cos I’m hoping for an early death
And I need to cling to something!”

What she said:
“I smoke ‘cos I’m hoping for an early death
And I need to cling to something!”

No no no no …

If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

It’s a hand-me-down; the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they’re better left unsung
I don’t know, don’t really care
Let there be songs to fill the air

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again
Let it be known there is a fountain
That was not made by the hands of men

There is a road, no simple highway
Between the dawn and the dark of night
And if you go no one may follow
That path is for your steps alone

Ripple in still water
When there is no pebble tossed
Nor wind to blow

But if you fall you fall alone

If you should stand then who’s to guide you?

If I knew the way
I would take you home

I decree today that life
Is simply taking and not giving
England is mine
And it owes me a living

But ask me why, and I’ll spit in your eye
Oh, ask me why, and I’ll spit in your eye
But we cannot cling to the old dreams anymore
No, we cannot cling to those dreams

Does the body rule the mind
Or does the mind rule the body?
I don’t know…

Under the iron bridge we kissed
And although I ended up with sore lips

It just wasn’t like the old days anymore
No, it wasn’t like those days

Am I still ill?
Oh…
Am I still ill?
Oh …

Does the body rule the mind
Or does the mind rule the body?
Oh, I don’t know…

Ask me why and I’ll die
Oh, ask me why, and I’ll die

And if you must go to work tomorrow
Well, if I were you I wouldn’t bother

For there are brighter sides to life
And I should know, because I’ve seen them
Oh, but not often …

Under the iron bridge we kissed
And although I ended up with sore lips
It’s not; it wasn’t like, the old days anymore
No, it wasn’t like those days

Am I still ill?
Oh…
Oh, am I still ill?
Oh…

Ah his fingernails, I see they’re broken
His ships they’re all on fire
The moneylenders lovely little daughter
Ah, shes eaten, shes eaten with desire.

She spies him through the glasses
From the pawnshops of her wicked father
She hails him with a microphone
That some poor singer, just like me, had to leave her

She tempts him with a clarinet
She waves a Nazi dagger
She finds him lying in a heap
She wants to be his woman

He says, yes, I just might go to sleep
But kindly leave, leave the future
Leave it open…

He stands where it is steep
Oh, and I guess he thinks that he’s the very first one

His hand upon his leather belt now,
Like it was the wheel of some big ocean liner.

And she will learn to touch herself so well
As all the sails burn down like paper.

And he has lit the chain
Of his famous cigarillo.

Ah, they’ll never, they’ll never ever reach the moon.
At least not the one that were after.
It’s floating broken on the open sea, look out there, my friends,
And it carries no survivors.

But lets leave these lovers wondering
Why they cannot have each other.

And lets sing another song, boys,
This one has grown old and bitter…

A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side

A dreaded sunny day
So I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
While Wilde is on mine

So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people, all those lives
Where are they now?

With loves, and hates
And passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived
And then they died

It seems so unfair
I want to cry

You say : “‘Ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn”
And you claim these words as your own
But I’ve read well, and I’ve heard them said
A hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)

If you must write prose and poems
The words you use should be your own
Don’t plagiarise or take “on loan”

‘Cause there’s always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
And who trips you up and laughs
When you fall

Who’ll trip you up and laugh
When you fall

You say : “‘Ere long done do does did”
Words which could only be your own
And then produce the text
From whence was ripped
(Some dizzy whore, 1804)

A dreaded sunny day
So let’s go where we’re happy
And I meet you at the cemetry gates
Oh, Keats and Yeats are on your side

A dreaded sunny day
So let’s go where we’re wanted
And I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side

But you lose
‘Cause weird lover Wilde is on mine

Sure !

All men have secrets and here is mine
So let it be known
We have been through hell and high tide
I can surely rely on you …
And yet you start to recoil
Heavy words are so lightly thrown

But still I’d leap in front of a flying bullet for you

So what difference does it make ?
So what difference does it make ?

It makes none
But now you have gone
And you must be looking very old tonight

The devil will find work for idle hands to do
I stole and I lied
And why?
Because you asked me to

But now you make me feel so ashamed
Because I’ve only got two hands
But I’m still fond of you, oh-ho-oh

So what difference does it make?
What difference does it make ?

Oh, it makes none
But now you have gone
And your prejudice won’t keep you warm tonight

Oh the devil will find work for idle hands to do
I stole, and then I lied
Just because you asked me to

But now you know the truth about me
You won’t see me anymore
Well I’m still fond of you, oh-ho-oh

But no more apologies
No more apologies
Oh, I’m too tired
I’m so very tired
And I’m feeling very sick and ill today
But I’m still fond of you, oh-ho-oh

Oh, my sacred one …
Oh …